Legacy
by The-Stupidest-Author-Ever
Summary: Helena Cormac is the only child of the legendary Shay Patrick Cormac, trained from childbirth to be a Templar Knight. Only as she grows to uphold her father's legacy, she learns there is more to the world that she could ever imagined.
1. Chapter 1

**I absolutely love Shay and quickly beating Haytham as my favorite Templar (gasp), and what better what to celebrate his (fictional) birthday than a story dedicated to him. I thought of an OC as his daughter and I can't get her out of my mind. I may or may not make a full fanfiction about her. However, enjoy this one-shot for now. I hope you enjoy!**

 **Oh, yes, this is dedicated to my beta and friend, _MiserableCreature,_ who is always an inspiration to my writing!**

I was born on the twelfth of December, the year of 1763. I was told it had been a very cold winter, and since it was Nova Scotia, the conditions were beyond harsh. I had spent the first several days—no, _weeks_ —of my life fighting for my survival. It did not help that I was small infant. But I fought with all the strength my little body had, and I had been able to see the light of spring. At least that's what Mother told me.

She relished my fighting spirit. She was a pirate. _Former_ pirate, at least. She had been part of the infamous Jack Reed's crew. Father rescued her from the ruins of a sea battle and welcomed her on his ship, despite the fact she was a woman. I can only assume one thing led to another, and I was conceived. They married at some time, too, but I don't know if it was before or after my birth. They never told me of the ceremony. I doubt they had one.

I was raised in the large manor my Father had purchased in Nova Scotia. He had kept another estate in New York and used it for business, but my family preferred the quiet isolation than the crowded business of the city. I don't know how frequent he was in the first few years of my life, but I clearly remembered his presence when I was a little older. When I became seven, he returned to stay with Mother and me for a couple years to rest from his weary travels. And he began to teach me.

How to fight. How to sail. How to run. And he planned to make the most of those two years, so he was not easy. I remember my first lessons of swordplay. Instead of traditionally starting with wooden sticks, Father immediately started with steel swords. The man had explained he saw it stupid to adjust to the weight of something light, and then to waste time readjusting to something completely new. The swords were so dull they couldn't possibly hurt anyone and Father took great care to be gentle (though I still spent most of the lessons whimpering in pain).

How to sail was much easier and natural. Father first taught me basic knots, but over time they became more and more complicated. But because of it I could secure a rigging and release a sail faster than a veteran sailor. He then taught me about cargo storage and how to load a canon. Navigation came the quickest, Father even letting me steer his prized _Morrigan_ through the rivers of the land. As part of that lesson the captain tried to teach me to predict the wind and weather. He warned there was no such thing as mastering it and Mother Nature would always be unpredictable, especially in the North, but it was a nice trait to have. But to predict weather just from glancing at the sky was hard, and I was still learning. However it was more than clear I had inherited my parents' sea-legs and by my eighth birthday I could do as much as a small crew.

Another activity I relished was hunting. I'll admit it had manifested by mere chance. Father was an experienced hunter and even though he had come to be with his family, he would still take hunting trips into the frontier. I convinced him to take me with him. But there was so much an eight-year-old could do. But Father tried his best, teaching me how to track an animal and skin it when it was killed. I was too small to hold any sort of weapon, so I just had to observe him shooting game with his air rifle. Naturally I learned more than hunting skill on those trips, learning how to survive in the wild and to climb through the trees.

At first it was a little hard, but I quickly adapted, my small body still eager to learn how to move. My father had laughed at my climbing, commenting I looked like a squirrel. But I was able to keep up with him though when we decided to fly through the trees. And naturally because I spent so much time climbing trees and masts, I found myself scaling buildings, usually my family's manor. It was rusty at first, but Father had caught my one day. Instead of scolding me, he laughed again and taught me how to find leverage in even the smallest of footholds. That led to freerunning, but it was difficult with my still growing body, not yet large enough to make wide gaps and faraway footholds.

By the end of my two-year training, I had learned of the Assassins and Templars. The war between our two factions and how it had spread across history. How it continued to this very day and Father was very well part of that war, and I one day will be, too. He even told me he had been on _both_ sides, but he judged I was too young at the time to understand the situation behind it. But I had been shown the secret side of my world, and I was fascinated by it. I was not scared, and Father didn't worry about me babbling of it. I was mature for my age and was a quiet girl, knowing how to keep a secret.

Father left then, sailing for the Old World to continue his services for the Templars. His visits would become shorter and less frequent. But I didn't mind, as I continued my training on my own, improving them as I grew older. I would spend time at the docks, practice fighting skills with dummies, and go on hunting trips of my own (but would only go after small game). Mother never minded, even when I left in the middle of the night without a word. I would usually sell what I caught from my hunts at the market or bring it back home.

And while Father had taught me the arts of war, Mother taught me much more discreet skills. Observing, stealing, and stealth. It started lightly with observation. Mother would take me to the market, and ask me to remember what I saw or to watch some person or object. I began with just glancing curiously, but then I grew to absorb my surroundings and analyze everything I came by, anticipating what my mother would ask me. Very soon I answered each question correctly. And very soon I learned how to observe without looking like I was observing at all.

She taught me another skill that most adults would die of an assaulted heart before seeing their children gain it. Theft. Once again, it was a slow process. Mother introduced it to me as a game, that we would steal each other's purses without trying to have the other notice. I picked up on it in no time at all. Mother would then have me to swipe from those who annoyed her, and I eventually practiced the art for my own amusement. Mother didn't mind as long I didn't do anything serious.

I acquired stealth on my own. It started with just child-like mischievousness. Hell, one of my earliest memories was that I had crawled out of my crib and I didn't want to get caught (that failed though when Father snatched me one room over). I would sneak around the house in order to steal a snack or with the intent of scaring my parents (it always failed, though). But instead of scolding me for my behavior, my parents, especially Mother, encouraged it. As I grew older, she even gave me tips how to control my movements and noise.

By the time I was twelve, I was much more active and talented than any child of my age. I saw little of it. It was just before my twelfth birthday when Father returned after almost a two-year trip abroad. He looked both exhausted and excited at the same time. One night when he was home, I eavesdropped on a conversation he had with Mother late at night, both of them believing I was asleep.

"The Assassins have gone through a lot of trouble hiding that Box," Father said. "But I finally found a trail. It won't be long now. Maybe another year."

I was curious to what he was talking about, and what exactly "the Box" was. But if he mentioned Assassins, if must be part of a Templar mission. And based on his tone, it must have been a big mission. Perhaps that's why he was gone so long?

But this time I wouldn't have to go through the disappointment of my father leaving again. Because I was going with him.

He decided it was my "birthday present." We sailed across the ocean on the _Morrigan_ , which my father still owned after these years. He said he would rather be gutted than leave his prized possession "to rot under the watch of some drunken harbormaster." It wasn't that he was possessive over the ship, but she was his first and only, as well as the greatest of her kind. It wasn't meant to be cast aside. He reacquainted me on combat and nautical skills, which I passed flawlessly. During the journey he cared to tell me about what to expect in Europe, but I already had an idea. Mother had gone through great pains to give me a high-level education, sometimes even visiting Master Kenway for special lessons.

Now a year has passed, and I sensed Father's long mission was about to draw to end. I still didn't know what it concerned over and I wouldn't be able to see it myself, but I knew. He had left early that morning with a Mr. Benjamin Franklin to visit the Palace of Versailles. A decadent place, Father called it. But Mr. Franklin seemed to be a kind man. I met him briefly when Father decided to bring him to where we were staying under the banner of friendship. Until they returned, I was on my own.

…At least now I was.

Father had left me under the watch of Charles de la Motte, whom I highly suspected was a Templar agent. Father knew I was more than capable of taking care of my own, so why he assigned me a babysitter was beyond me. Especially la Motte. The man stood like a statue, barely batting me a glance or twitching a muscle. My attempts of starting a conversation usually ended with grunts or one-syllable words. However escaping him had been quite easy. I was glad to be rid of his watch.

Now I walked through the cobblestone streets of Paris that were full of activity, observing the beauty of the city. There was absolutely nowhere in the British colonies that was like this place. Europe was completely a different world for me. I drank it in, wanting to etch every single detail of the exotic realm into my memory.

…All the while snatching the purse of a French soldier.

I immediately took off, eager to continue my tour of the city. However the man caught my movement in the corner of his eye and noticed the absence of weight on his belt.

"Oi!"

The soldier and his companion launched after me, yelling curses and insults. I only laughed. I ducked around the corner and flew down a paved road. Townspeople were to jump out of the way or be shoved to the ground. The guards yelled for requests for the people to stop me, only for them to stay put and stare in confusion. I swore I could hear the men's frustrated groans.  
Very quickly I found myself in the local market, cramped with merchants and their merchandise along with consumers. Startled yells filled the air as I crashed through it all: shoving past unsuspecting customers, tearing through open-air shops, leaping over barriers, and even throwing down crates to slow my pursuers. I didn't give a damn what was in my way. And while I had flown through the marketplace in a matter of seconds (all the while leaving a path of destruction in my wake), the soldiers had a much more difficult time pushing though the busy square. Didn't help it was the busiest part of the day.

I ducked behind another corner, this time whirling to face the wall. My body moving on its own, I leapt up and clung onto the side of the building. Defying gravity, I scampered up the trail of microscopic footholds in no time flat. I had just slipped onto the roof by the time the French soldiers came around. Instead of running away, I turned back to glance down at them as they halted, whipping around for any trace of me. I cackled.

Finally one of the guards had the sense to glance up to lock gazes with me, his own narrowing dangerously. He shouted and I dashed away from the edge. I began to soar across the rooftops, sprinting across buildings in flying speeds and leaping across gaps with open arms. Paris was far denser than colonist cities, even New York. The buildings were even more complex and taller, too, having me dodge around chimneys and scramper up steep slanted roofs. But I was grateful for the ascended landscape because it wasn't very long at all before the soldiers yells faded behind me.

With another laugh, I pushed myself off a wall at an angle, snatching a piece of a roof that was out of my reach. I hauled myself to the top of the building, panting slightly and the wind ruffling my loose pitch-black hair. As I walked across the shingles, the view I had taking my breath away.

The dying sun illuminated the sky and gave the city of Paris a gorgeous glow, drawing out every detail and beauty of the land. A forest of buildings of all sizes and shapes spanned as far as the eyes could see, stretching to every horizon. A few splashes of green from trees and gardens gleamed in the sunlight adding color to the foreign landscape, which was already splashed with paint. I could see how it was considered the most beautiful city in the world.

But it was when I turned around what really took my interest. It was a gigantic building, broader than any I've seen and towering far above the buildings surrounding it. The exterior was decorated in gothic design. Each edge seemed to be carefully carved, from the railings stretching across it to the over a dozen gargouilles acting as sentries over Paris. Stain-glassed windows made-up almost the entire front, designed with such care that it told it could only be a church. The loud, echoing gong of the bells only confirmed its purpose, ringing from the tall, twin towers extending from the roof.

Notre-Dame.

Whatever breath I had was stolen. I was told it was utterly beautiful, but I had no idea… Nothing in America compared to this. And it was so big…

Suddenly a grin slowly curled my lips. What was it like at the top? If the city skyline was beautiful at this level, what did it look like even higher? And I was even more eager to climb it. It certainly looked like a challenge. By now my grin looking devilish, I made my way to the ground. I slid down the roof to fall expertly onto the overhang of a store before leaping onto an abandoned carriage. I landed on my haunches before bouncing onto the ground. My feet were once again on solid stone, I glanced around the courtyard that was already filled with people, but not a soul had seen my folly. Ducking my head, I walked away to find a secluded area to begin my climb. A pair of women's voices stopped me. They spoke in French, but both of my parents knew the language and taught me as well. Well, as least Mother did; Father just corrected me if I made a mistake.

 _"What? A murder in Versailles?"_ a woman practically shrieked.

I stopped dead. Versailles? Wasn't Father there?

 _"Yes,"_ the other nodded frantically. _"He was perfectly fine one moment and then—dead! Bleeding on the floor in front of an entire crowd!"_

The first one moaned. _"What has this world come to? If not even the King's castle is safe then what place is?"_

The woman hummed in agreement. As quickly as the conversation started, the pair used to comment to change to subject to complain of their indolent monarch. I was still frozen, however. What of Father? Had he been at the murder? Was _he_ the murder? I immediately shook the notion out of my head. No. Almost everything I knew came from Father. He was the one who taught me how to defend myself, because he know how to better than anyone. After all, he _was_ a former Assassin.

I sighed, calming myself down before I became overexcited. Father was fine. I knew it. I continued on back to my task, wanting to continue my exploration. After I climb the church, then I'll consider returning. Father did promise to return by nightfall, after all.

I traveled the side of the grand building near the rear. This spot was covered in shadow as the sun hid behind the building. My dark clothing blended well, but it gave an ominous feel to the cemetery behind me, resting in the shadow of the holy structure. I glanced around to see if anyone was watching me, only to see a pair of drunks collapsed on the ground, babbling intelligibly. I was fine.

Planting the sole of my boot on the stone, I practically ran up the wall to cling to the still of a fancy window. I craned my neck upwards to see the dark building towering far above me, almost looking like it was touching the sky. It didn't look this tall before! No, I could do it. It was no different than anything I had done. And if I already accomplished so much in my life at the age of thirteen, climbing a stupid church would be no harder. After all, one must make their own luck.

I grinned again, still knowing if I did reach the top, it would be quite an accomplishment. Maybe I could tell Father. Knowing him, he would be quite proud. But then again, I would have to explain about la Motte and how I gotten there in the first place…

"Helena."

…Speak of the Devil and he shall appear.

I stopped my climb, which only made the altitude of ten feet. I glanced down to see a familiar figure.

"Yes, _athair_?" I greeted in our native tongue of Irish.  
Shay Patrick Cormac stood the street where I had been only a matter of seconds ago, staring up at me. He wore his elegant clothing that would make a French nobleman jealous. A finely decorated brown coat wrapped around his body, neatly buttoned at his waist. However the coat opened just enough to show blue undershirt, the same shade of the calm Atlantic Ocean. Tall boots came to his calf, swallowing up his black trousers. A belt of ammunitions was wrapped around his waist with a pair of well-crafted flintlocks clipped to his side. The man's graying-black hair was tied back, exposing a now ghostly-pale scar across his right eye. It was like looking into a mirror as I stared into his dark eyes, which were identical to mine.

My father waved his fingers in a gesture. "Come down."

So much for my exploration. I ignored my rising adrenaline and anticipation as I retreated down a couple footholds before dropping to the ground altogether. I turned to my father as he neared me. I winced as I saw his inscrutable expression. I _hated_ that expression. Or lack of one, really. It wasn't that it meant a harsh anger was brewing, but that I didn't know _what_ was brewing. There was no way to tell what Father was thinking or what he would say when he looked like that. He was no more unpredictable.

"What are you doing, _iníon_?" Shay interrogated in the same way.

I ignored my nervousness and smiled innocently. I replied in French. _"Nothing."_

Shay cocked an eyebrow. He followed along. _"You were supposed to be with la Motte."_

I opened my mouth to reply, but stuttered when I couldn't find an appropriate lie. One in French, at least. Now Father tilted his head.

"Have nothing to say?" the Templar chided, reverting back to English.

I stuttered again before I gave up with a shake of my head. "I have nothing."

Now his stoic mask broke to narrow his eyes in a scolding glare. His voice went darker. "I told you behave."

"I was! It wasn't my fault the man was a _cac_!"

"Watch your language. Where is he?"

"…Somewhere in the Le Louvre."

Father sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. My throat constricted, but that wasn't an issue as suddenly a pressure enveloped my body as my father pulled me into an embrace. I felt his chin on the top of my head.

"You foolish child," he whispered in a fake hiss. "What will I do with you?"

I smiled into his chest. "You could make me into a Templar."

"Hmm. I'll consider it. But keep this up and you'll be a deck-hand."

I looked up to him with a look of horror. "You wouldn't."

Shay raised his eyebrows with a grin.

"You would?"

Father gave an amused snort as he released me and settled next to my side, his arm around my shoulder. I let him usher me down the street. We would usually fall into a comfortable silence, but instead I glanced up at him uncertainly as the women's conversation haunted my thoughts.

"How was Versailles, father?" I asked him.

"Rather dull, truth be told," Shay replied, his tone matching his words.

My uncertainty grew. Dull? Not according to the women. I paused for a moment and I found my mouth to be strangely dry. " _Athair_ , I heard there was a murder at the Palace today."

Shay raised his eyebrows in surprise, but the rest of his body didn't respond.

"Oh? I didn't see anything like that."

"Weren't you there?"

"Not for very long. I must have missed the excitement. Good thing I did."

I forced a smile. "You make your own luck, after all."

Shay gave a light laugh, but I was still unsure. He appeared too nonchalant, even for him. Could he be lying? I decided not to push it, knowing it wouldn't do anything. I listened as the Irishman went on, though.

"Paris must be becoming a dangerous place if there is death in the King's palace," he commented. "Maybe it's be a good time to leave."

"Maybe we'll return to Mother?" I suggested.

While Father and I left for Europe, my mother remained on our estate in Nova Scotia. She could handle herself, but I was eager to see her again. However Shay only frowned.

"There's a civil war in the colonies right now," he informed. "It may not be the best time."

Immediately I was filled with worry. "What of _máthair_?"

"As far as I can tell, the fighting hasn't reached Nova Scotia. But if it worsens, I'll pay for her passage to join us."

I immediately sighed in relief. Mother was safe. But my worry found a replacement. I looked back to Father. "What about Master Kenway and all the others?"

I had heard Master Johnson was dead, murdered by Indians. Then it was Major Pitcairn, who was lost to the rebels. Who else was dead? Father's frown deepened, obviously sharing my concern. He would never admit it, though.

"They'll be fine," he assured in a cool voice. He made it lighter as he looked down at me. "Do you question Master Kenway?"

I immediately shook my head. Master Haytham Kenway was the Grand Master of the Templar Colonial Rite, being its most skilled and intelligent member. He was a cold and distant man, but he was quite kind. My father was one of his favorite subordinates, and so he adored me. I remember he would give me chocolate whenever I visited, knowing it was my only weakness. Master Kenway would be fine. Nothing could defeat him.

"Oh, _iníon_ ," Father's voice suddenly came, breaking my thoughts.

I hummed as he pulled his arm away from me. My confusion was quickly replaced by horror as the French soldier's purse appeared in Shay's hand.

"Where did this come from?"

 **Sorry if it was a little dull, but this was mostly to introduce my character. I even found a theme song for her. It's called "Prophecy" by Adrian von Zieglar. Haha, it's Celtic but I swear it fits Helena so well.  
I also thought it would be fun to have Helena and Shay speak some Irish. I'm only using short phrases and I confess I'm using Google Translate, so if I happen to make a mistake, I apologize.  
Translations:  
athair – father  
iníon – daughter  
máthair – mother  
cac – shit**


	2. Chapter 2

**Happy Holidays, everyone! After sitting on this story for a long time, I decided to continue this. I have the first few chapters planned and have a general idea where I want the plot to go. I hope you enjoy!**

 _April 5_ _th_ _, 1777_

 _Annapolis Royal, Nova Scotia_

Annapolis Royal was small, at least compared to the crowded city of Halifax. Buildings hid within the lush green trees, either bordering the icy water of the river or further back in the hills. Guarding cannons of the forbidding fort watched over the bay, as if anticipating an attack from a wave of enemies at any moment. But instead of threats, the river was full of merchant ships, coming inland to trade fruits of whaling and nowadays, weapons and gunpowder.

The _Morrigan_ was among these ships, tied in by great ropes as sailors unloaded her cargo from the Old World. I didn't pay attention to what it all was, but I knew tea and muskets were among them. As a town sympathetic to the Yankee cause, they were valuable items among the markets.

It was for that reason soldiers in red coats stalked the streets, entire columns moving in synch and their stern faces were like stone. Their bayonets glinted maliciously in the sunlight, a clear warning to the citizens that hissed and spat at them.

I wondered how many wanted to join the rebellion and fight beside the Colonies—no, not colonies. States now. United States of America. Looking at the faces of anger and dissent, I could tell many wanted to join the new nation. But they couldn't.

The very essence that chained Annapolis Royal, kept it afloat. The citizens _needed_ the British. For supplies, for economy, for defense. Even now, the shadow of the Native Americans or the French or even civil war loomed over the little city. Only the British Empire could keep the enemies away, or else the people would lose their homes. Again.

So the citizens kept their politicians and their brothers to the south to fight for them, all the while they reap the benefits of King George's treasures.

"Helena!" I was jolted from my train of thought and turned around to see my father walking up the _Morrigan_ 's ramp. "Time to go home. Your mother's waiting for us."

I grinned and followed him onto the deck. Yes, at long last, we could go home.

* * *

We called our hideaway Port Royal, after Annapolis's original name (before the British changed it after taking it from the French). Father bought the manor from a businessman during the Seven Years' War. It rested on a hill overlooking the great bay that lead to the river where Annapolis Royal settled.

Yes, that meant we passed our own home in order to get to the town, but Father did not want to come home just to leave again merely to sell cargo. Besides, we would've return in the middle of the night, a dangerous time to dock. But now that it was early morning, pale light illuminated the shores.

With veteran skill, Shay pulled the _Morrigan_ towards our private dock, dropping anchor just as his men threw ropes onto the boardwalk. I waited anxiously as the sailors tied the sloop-of-war in place and closed her sails. I could see the manor from here!

The two-story building was made of pale brick with dark roof shingles. Windows made of glass and pristine white frames lined the walls of the manor, almost spotless. The manor was wider than the _Morrigan_ 's length, leaving plenty of room for merely the three of us (and sometimes a few extra guests).

Father must have either sensed my anxiousness or caught my staring, because he caught my attention. When I looked at him, he gave one of his crooked smiles and waved his hand towards the manor.

"Go on, then," he allowed.

I practically squealed in joy. Without a moment's hesitation, I left my father's side by the wheel and I vaulted over the ship's railing. The moment my boots hit the wood, I took off up the hill. The path wasn't paved, merely a dirt trail that lead the manor's front door, that faced the water.

Sitting at a table underneath the veranda was a familiar figure.

" _Máthair_!" I cheered as I sprinted across the yard towards her. The woman there looked up from at my call.

"Ah, my shining treasure has been found at last," Mother chuckled as she put down her book and rose.

She opened her arms in time for my embrace, holding me close to her chest. When she pulled apart, her gaze was warm.

Looking upon her showed that I had gotten my looks from my father. She was tall and lean like myself, but her shoulder-length hair was a reddish-brown like copper. Her emerald eyes had a scheming glint, the same look she would have when she instructed me to steal from a lady's purse. She may have appeared as a modest housewife, especially in her plain dress, but she would always remain a pirate at heart.

There was the sound of boots scrunching of the ground behind me as Father approached.

"Everything alright, Rachel?" Shay asked as we pulled apart.

"I will be once I've gotten my kiss," Rachel retorted in a mock scolding tone.

The man merely consented, stepping onto the porch to place his lips upon hers. I gagged at the sight, which only rewarded me a whack from Father. Rachel merely laughed as she lead us inside.

The manor was warm compared the coolness of the outside. A mix of modest and expensive décor filled the wide rooms of the house, reflecting that neither of my parents had any interest in decorating. The walls were a crimson shade, covered by a handful of paintings, usually of ships or pirates. My favorite was a portrait of Blackbeard, the infamous pirate of the West Indies, standing over a bay with his prized ship, the _Queen Anne's Revenge,_ behind him.

"I hope you two are hungry, because supper is about to be ready," Mother said. Automatically my stomach rumbled. While my cheeks reddened, Father merely laughed.

"One of us is, at least."

* * *

After months of eating rations and cold meals, I had forgotten how much I loved Monsieur Delpuech's cooking. Rich flavors filled my tongue and the food settled in my belly, making my limbs heavy. I went to bed promptly after.

The cotton sheets were warm and soft, nothing like the rough blankets I usually slept in. And although I would occasionally share my father's bed, not even his sheets were this comfortable. I fell asleep the instant my head settled on the pillow.

Only to be disturbed by voices.

I blinked my eyes open, moaning in protest. I paused and listened to determine the source. Below me, in the study. After a moment, I determined it was Mother and Father. What were they speaking of at this hour?

Curiosity getting the better of me, I crawled out of bed. Not bothering to exchange my nightdress, I pulled open the window. Immediately the curtains clew from a cool breeze, chilling my skin. I ignored it as I slid over the frame and found a foothold on the wall. It was awkward, to say the least, climbing barefoot and in my dress. But if I walked down the stairs, I risked being discovered and missing part of the conversation. Besides, my parents wouldn't think to look out the window. After all, they never noticed when I eavesdropped on them before.

I heard Mother's voice through the stone wall, first.

"Leaving? Again?" her voice was sharp and piercing, lined with annoyance. I flinched, because I knew my mother only used that tone when she was angry.

"I'm just going to New York for a little while," Father's patient voice replied. "I need to speak with Haytham."

" _Haytham_ is in the middle of a bloody war. Considering now that half his Inner Sanctum is dead, I think that box is the least of his concerns."

"All the more reason I need to leave." There was a pause. I had to strain to hear what Father said next, as his next words were in a low tone. "You _know_ their deaths aren't just coincidence. Hickey's death proved it."

I widened my eyes. Hickey was dead? How? When? Why did no one tell me? My shock was interrupted by my mother's exasperated sigh.

"It's the Assassins, isn't it?" she whispered.

My blood grew cold. The _Assassins._ The Brotherhood of murderer and thieves, whose goal was to thwart the Templar Order's mission of world peace. They were the ones that left my father for dead, just for their lust for power. I listened more intently as Shay replied.

"…Yes. According to what I've been told there's just one running around," he confessed. "I plan to kill him myself."

"No rest for the Assassin Hunter, hmm?" Rachel commented, her tone almost mocking.

"If I have to spend the rest of my life repaying the damage I have caused, so be it." There was a creak from the floorboard as the Irishman took a step forward. "But there is no reason to bring my girls down with me. That is why I want you and Helena to go France. François de la Serre will care for you there."

By now my heart stopped. My father and I discussed staying in France, but when he declared to go back to America, I didn't think he would send my mother and I away. Just because the Assassins were targeting Colonial Templars? How could that be? I thought Father killed them all! Trying to find Father's reasoning rejuvenated my heart, but it raced quicker by the second as I waited for Mother's reply.

"No."

"Rachel—" Shay started, but was cut off.

"No," the woman said more firmly. "I lived my entire life in the Colonies. America is my home, and I won't just leave it because of someone else. Soldiers and Assassins be _damned_."

"Even if they come after you?!"  
"Do you forget? I'm a pirate and a woman. I've had men after me since I was a girl. One of them was you."

Shay snorted. "No, I was after Reed."

"And he's dead. The only man I ever loved and you killed him. I had half a brain to skewer with my sword."

"Oh, you tried, remember?"

"And I realized I was wrong," Mother's whisper came. "As was the Brotherhood. I chose you, Shay. I _left_ the Assassins. I won't leave your side, not after all we've been through."

"Rachel, if the Brotherhood has truly returned, then they'll target us," Father replied, his tone on the verge of desperation. "Traitors of the Brotherhood."

"I'll gut anyone who crosses me."

I didn't hear the rest of the conversation. In a blink of an eye, I scampered back up the wall and ungracefully dived into my window. I slammed it shut and the curtains stilled. The room was captured silence, broken only by my panting.

Assassins. _Assassins._ My parents were Assassins. Now the Brotherhood has resurrected, and they would—no, I couldn't bear have the thought. And no, that wouldn't happen. Mother and Father taught me everything I knew. How to use the Assassins' own tactics against them. Yes, that's how Shay Cormac, the feared Assassin Hunter, destroyed the Colonial Brotherhood. It would be how he would destroy them again.

Even with my weak assurances, I was disturbed. How many secrets have my parents kept from me? Hickey was dead, the Assassins were terrorizing the Templar Order, and my mother was an Assassin pirate. They trusted me enough to tell me of the war when I was a child. I thought that meant that they would always be honest with me.

So why? I paced around my room like a caged lion, trying to process everything that I had heard. My father was returning to war, and I was returning to France. I couldn't just sit by, and just—

The heavy footstep outside my door interrupted my train of thought. In a blink of an eye, I soared across the room and landed in my bed. I had just thrown on the covers when my door creaked open and orange candlelight poured in. I kept my eyes closed and my breathing even as my father neared. I half-expected my ploy to fail and the Master Templar to call me out for faking sleep.

Instead, I felt Father's warm lips on my brow and the disheveled sheets were pulled to my chin.

"I'll be back soon, _mo stór_."

Sleep did not return that night.

* * *

A few days later I found myself sitting one a thick tree branch far above the forest floor. My back was against the bark of the trunk while I had one leg dangling in the air. My rifle was against my lap, my finger resting on the trigger as I waited patiently for an unsuspecting creature to walk by.

The fresh air of the forest helped clear my fogged mind. Birds chipped in the distance, filling the silence with a peaceful melody. It wasn't the most beautiful of days, but it was expected for Nova Scotia. Low-hanging gray clouds blanketed the sky, blocking out the sun and having dreary light descend upon the world. It was cool for a late spring day, but I was warm in my leather jacket.

I tried to focus on the ground two dozen feet below me, but my mind kept wandering. True to his word, Father left the morning after that night, taking the _Morrigan_ with him. Mother said nothing of the conversation—or our departure for France, if she had even considered it. Judging by the stubborn look in her eyes, I assumed she wasn't.

She wasn't the only one. I wasn't going back to France—not without my father. I wouldn't be sent away like some liability to rid of. Like some defenseless little girl I _knew_ how to fight. Shay trained me for a purpose. To be—

A noise from the forest floor interrupted me. I glanced down to notice a blotch of tawny creeping across the white and brown ground. The doe was sniffing curiously across the snow, pawing away the substance with her hoof. Obviously hungry from the long winter and hoping to get lucky in finding the new spouts of spring. She wasn't the only one.

Silently, I shifted the rifle in my grip, placing the butt of the gun on my shoulder. Like I had done a thousand times before, I leaned my gaze over the barrel, staring down the path of the ball. There was rustle a distance away, startling the doe. She threw her head up in alarm. I fired.

A clap of thunder echoed across the forest, sending a flock of birds into the sky. Rifle in hand, I fell from my perch and sauntered toward my kill. A clean shot to the head. No damage to the pelt whatsoever. Father would be proud. Shame he wasn't here…

Pulling out my hunting knife, I knelt down next to the fallen animal. I wasn't strong enough to haul it away, so I would have to salvage what I could carry. I kept in mind I should not be wasteful, as Father taught me.

"It died by your hand—don't let it be for nothing," he had once told me, like he was remembering when he was taught the very same lesson.

But I never got the chance to respect the doe's sacrifice.

The sound of muffled clapping came from behind me, making the hair of my neck stand on end. Automatically, I twisted around, rifle raised. A pit formed in my stomach when I was greeted with red.

"My, my, an impressive kill," the British soldier praised, his London accent as thick as Haytham's.

He was a commander, by the look of him. Gold shoulder pads were sewn to his red coat and a handful of medals were clipped to his heart. His trousers were as spotless as the snow around him and his polished black boots came to his calf and were speckled by snow and mud. His sword was clipped to his belt, finely sharpened and decorated. The man looked young, having a flawless pale face, but he wore a powdered wig for whatever reason.

My dark eyes were cold and challenging as I was greeted by his confident smirk and his gleaming eyes. He looked as though he had just gotten a score himself. He didn't seem fazed by my rifle at all, despite the fact he had just witnessed my aim. However, he was smart enough to pause a clear distance away from me.

"Especially for such a young… girl engaging herself in such a brutal sport," the commander went on, his tone almost condescending as he looked me up and down. "Tell me, where did you get your hands on such a fine weapon?"

He was searching, I knew it. I saw the search and seizures in the city—and how weapons were at the top of the list. Father had to pay significant amount of money to the harbormaster to convince him to look the other way. I didn't flinch, even though I didn't appreciate his tone.

"We all have to make a living somehow," I replied curtly.

"Yes, that is true," the man agreed. "Including _us_."

He waved his hand. Instantly, several redcoats materialized from the trees, over half of them aiming their muskets at me. I cursed under my breath. I knew when I was outmatched.

I dropped my rifle onto the ground and lifted my hands in the air, slowly rising to my feet. Instantly, the nearest soldier slipped behind me and grabbed my wrists. I couldn't help but wince, but he was stronger and he forced a pair of shackles on me. I glared daggers at the commander as he stood pompously over me.

"And for what charges am I being arrested?" I demanded.

"Possession of illegal weaponry, for one," the man announced as one of his cronies tossed him _my_ rifle. "And trespassing. This land is now property of His Majesty."

I couldn't help it. My jaw dropped open. Since when?! I knew these charges were bullshit. The military were looking for anyone to be their next scapegoat. Like hell I would be an "example" of "rebel activity."

"Take her away," the commander ordered.

My captor placed a firm hand on my shoulder and tried to steer me away, but I planted my heels in the ground. Before he could give me another shove, I acted quickly. Using my unique flexibility, I jumped in my spot, bending my legs completely and forcing my wrists to go beneath them. My bound hands now in front of me, I charged towards the commander.

His look of shock and surprise was priceless. He couldn't even kept a sure grip as I ripped my rifle from him. I kicked him to the ground and spun around, landing in a crouch and threw out my rifle just in time to collide with another soldier's crotch. He fell with a wheeze and I jumped to my feet.

My instincts were screaming to use my rifle against them—I had better aim than all of them combined. But having enough sense that firing against the King's men would land me in uncharted waters, I ran. It was awkward—between the shackles and the rifle and the snow and the mud. I stumbled the first few steps and I had just slipped behind a tree with a musket was fired, sending bark flying everywhere.

"Seize her!" the commander roared as he clumsily climbed to his feet.

I heard a pair of footsteps behind me, closing in. I cursed at my predicament. I wouldn't be able to outrun them—restrained like this. Sucking in a breath, I whirled around, only to duck in time to avoid the first man's bayonet. Apparently the commander had noticed the attempted murder.

"I want her alive!" he screamed.

Well, that was one less thing to worry about. I slammed the butt of the rifle into the soldier's chin, snapping his head back and sending him away. When the other one swung his bayonet at me, I blocked it with my own weapon. Taking advantage of the stalemate, I sent a swift kick to the man's groin. When he weakened with a whimper, I shoved his weapon away and slammed my rifle into his temple. As he fell, I twisted around to face the incoming squadron.

The shackles had just enough slack for me to place my rifle on my shoulder. I aimed in the general direction of the squadron, not picking a target, but it had the desired effect. Immediately the group dived behind the trees with startled cries, stopping their advance. I didn't hesitate to spin around and race away.

A few yards away, I noticed a dead tree leaning on the fork of another, creating a clear path into the canopy above. I realized it was my only chance to escape the redcoats, but I wouldn't be able to climb it, not with my rifle in my hands, anyway. I didn't want to leave it—it was my prized possession and a gift from John Pitcairn, my last memento of him. But I didn't have a choice.

I dropped the rifle onto the ground and scampered into the trees, awkwardly using my bound hands to pull me up. I heard the squadron below me, the commander still bellowing orders.

"Do not let her escape!" he shouted. Deciding his voice was more annoying than chattering great auks, I threw a ball of snow at his face. That shut him up.

I jumped from branch to branch, the soldiers following me from below, occasionally firing up at me. Usually their shots missed by a distance, but a few times the ball came too close for comfort. Finally I reached part of the forest where the land was not in the redcoats' favor—rocks lined the ground and trees were packed tensely together. They fell back a few paces, allowing me to climb into the great branches of a tree.

The leaves had not fully grown back, so I couldn't use it as cover, but I improvised. Just as the soldiers came into sight, I slipped behind its large trunk. The same moment they rushed by, eyes focused on the trees ahead of them, I doubled back out of their line of sight. From my new perch, I watched them run blindly into the forest, shouting in confusion.

"Where in blazes did she go?"

"She has to be here somewhere, keep looking!"

With a victorious grin, I moved away. I didn't drop to the ground until I was convinced I was a safe distance away. I hissed when I landed awkwardly and pain burned from my wrists—already rubbed raw from the shackles. I considered my predicament.

It was too risky to return to my bounty and rifle—or travel anywhere else in the forest. No doubt the soldiers would be scouring the entire land for me. That meant I couldn't take any detours—or that I could take shelter with the "neighbors." My gut twisted. That meant I would have to go straight home, and find a way to get these shackles off of me. Preferably before Mother found out…

With a groan, I began the long walk home. I didn't return until sunset, but since there was no sun, it meant the evening was now a near black. I couldn't go to the docks—the crew had left with Shay and those that remained were probably already starting their night of drinking. That meant I had to accept defeat.

I knocked on the back door when I found it locked and waited with a churning stomach. If I had to choose between a pompous commander and my cross mother, I would always deal with the commander. Perhaps a servant would answer…

But I wasn't offered that luxury when the door swung open. Rachel's look said it all.

"What did you do now?"


End file.
